not how MUCH you give, but how much you have left

THE WIDOW’S MIGHT

She sat in the pew,
Her head bowed down,
The basket coming,
She made no sound.

Oh, how she wished
To give so much,
But, alas, she had
No Midas touch.

The basket came,
She shook with fear
And into the basket
She dropped a tear.

Now, tears can’t touch
Like Midas, bold.
But dripped from the heart,
They’re liquid gold.